


back to the start

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Season/Series 01, Smut, Then RST, UST, and they just, did it, in pilot!verse or smth, like what if all the dumbass shit never happened, s1e3.1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 14:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer.”





	

“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer.”

John looks up to where Sherlock is sitting at the table, watches Sherlock’s elegant fingers turn the dials to adjust the focus of the microscope.

Sherlock doesn’t lift his face to speak further.

John waits just long enough to validate his heavy sigh. He turns the page of his newspaper with an angry flap. “What offer is that, then?”

Sherlock wags a limp hand in the direction of the sitting room. “You know. The thing you asked. At Angelo’s.”

John blinks. “You want a bite of my chicken milanese?”

Sherlock lifts himself up and away from the microscope in a movement that somehow conveys exactly how deliberately dim he thinks John is being. “No,” he says, mocking patience by mouthing all over the word with lips and tongue, “I’m going to have sex with you.”

John inhales sharply and proceeds to choke on a globule of his own spit.

As he coughs and sputters, Sherlock stalks, comes around close in front of John’s chair and stands over John’s still-convulsing frame. He waits while John regains control over his breathing.

“Are you finished?” he asks as John wheezes.

“What the hell, Sherlock? At what point during dinner did I offer to have sex with you?”

“Not _this_ dinner,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes.

John folds and slams down his paper. “Seriously, Sherlock. Of all the dinners we’ve had together, at which did I supposedly offer to have sex with you?”

Sherlock looks affronted. “The first one!”

John works his jaw. “The first…?”

“With the cabbie.”

“The _cabbie_?!” John hears his voice take on a note that’s just to the left of exasperation. It sounds like anxiety, like interest. “I offered to have sex with you the night I shot the cabbie?”

Sherlock sighs and sinks to his knees.

The panic that catches at the back of John’s throat makes him cough again, and Sherlock uses the opportunity to place a hand on each of John’s legs. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

“Sherlock- no, this is insane.” It’s a weak protest, and John knows it; knows Sherlock knows it.

“Is it?” Sherlock runs his palms up over John’s thighs, nudges the creases in John’s jeans with his thumbs. “You wanted to know if I was single; you wanted to know if I liked men- I do, by the way. You licked your lips whilst staring at the base of my throat; I felt your leg brush mine under the table approximately once every five to seven minutes; really, John. Need I go on?”

John sucks in a breath and unconsciously spreads his legs a bit more.

Sherlock sighs again. “Needs must, then. You’re breathing rapidly now; I’m quite sure your pulse has quickened, and since I’ve started touching you, you’ve wet your lower lip three times. Also, there is frankly damning evidence,” he slides his hand down the inside of John’s left thigh to cup John’s not uninterested cock, leans in, pulls himself up and breathes hot against John’s mouth, “right here.”

John squirms, pushes into Sherlock’s hand, closes his eyes and gasps. “Oh, god.”

It’s a good thirty seconds before he opens his eyes again and still Sherlock hovers there, hand unyielding, lips slick and parted and for a moment, John just breathes him in. Sherlock is a warm, clean thing in the evening, soapy and a little spicy, smells of shampoo and aftershave and his own skin.

“Ah, fuck it,” John says, and kisses Sherlock on his full, wet bottom lip.

Sherlock jerks back as if stung, is still for a few seconds longer before he positively _pounces_.

He crawls up over John, straddles John’s thighs and takes his face in both hands, holding it still so he can savour John’s mouth. He licks and bites and eats at John’s lips, sliding his tongue inside and against John’s and all John can do is whimper into it.

John groans as Sherlock’s mouth finds his jaw, nibbles at the sensitive bit of skin behind his ear and the long, thick tendon of his neck. Sherlock begins to slide down again, rubbing his body all along John’s as he lifts John’s jumper over his head and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Sherlock,” John says, but it isn’t meant to be answered; Sherlock’s busy mouthing at the line of John’s sternum as he pushes apart John’s shirt to expose his chest. Sherlock’s knees are back on the floor now, but he’s covering John with his body like a blanket, grinding the hot, hard bulge in his trousers against the inside of John’s knee.

Sherlock undoes John’s flies and presses his face to the front of his pants, inhales deeply,  rubs his cheek against John’s erection, and John shudders and jerks his hips.

“Sorry,” John pants, “sorry.”

Sherlock lifts his head and grins like he’s been told some kind of secret before dipping down again to lick and suck on John’s cotton-covered cock.

John shakes with the effort of keeping his hips steady, his hands balled into fists next to his thighs. He lets out little half bitten-off grunts and bites his tongue lest he beg for mercy.

Sherlock finally pulls him free and takes just the tip of John’s cock between his lips. John slams his head against the backrest of his chair and lets out a long, low growl.

“Ah, fuck. Fuck, Sherlock,” he says, giving into the urge to curl one fist into Sherlock’s thick black hair.

Sherlock reaches for John’s other hand and places it alongside its mate before moving his mouth all over John’s cock, flicking against the frenulum and tongueing the leaking slit. He gives the fat head a hearty suck before pulling the whole of John’s cock into his mouth, swallowing down around John’s shaft as his nose bumps up against the coarse brown fur at the base. John moans then, loud and unselfconscious, twists his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and allows his hips an experimental pump.

Sherlock tucks his hands beneath John’s arse and pulls John down his throat.

John’s whining now, it’s ridiculous but he can’t help it, it’s just so _good_ , so hot and wet and _god_ , but Sherlock’s tongue is even more clever than John thought, to be able to do _that_ , and John’s not thinking about anything but pushing himself further, harder into Sherlock, and he looks down to see Sherlock’s eyes fixed on his face, pale and feral and intractable, even as the mouth beneath them is stretched wide around the base of John’s cock, drooling saliva all over his own chin.

John comes with a shout and shoves himself as far down Sherlock’s throat as he can manage, pulls hard on Sherlock’s hair as his body lifts up off the chair in time with the pulses of his orgasm. He comes down slowly, shivering into the aftershocks coaxed out of him as Sherlock gently licks and suckles at his twitching cock, releases him with a final and oddly affectionate kiss to the tip.

“Fuck,” John says.

“Promise?” Sherlock asks, his voice gone a bit hoarse. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and blinks with red-rimmed eyes.

“Sherlock. _Fuck_.”

“If you insist.”

John looks at his tear and spit-stained face. “That was incredible.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock says, but his disdain for the obvious is all artifice now; he’s all puffed up like a peacock as he stands and takes John’s hand to press it against where he’s hot and throbbing inside his trousers. “Anyway, you were saying?”


End file.
